


The Days We Share

by apromptdisregarded



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Action, Attack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Katniss POV, Multi Chapter, Oneshot, POV Katniss Everdeen, PTSD, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay, Violence, caring peeta, hurt katniss, injured, injured katniss, primrose everdeen - Freeform, sick katniss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apromptdisregarded/pseuds/apromptdisregarded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-mockingjay, Pre-epilogue. Several years following the collapse of Snow's Panem, Katniss Everdeen believes that she's moved on from the death of her sister. But when an unexpected reminder of Prim's tragedy drives her into the woods one night, Katniss is forced to reopen older wounds, while forging new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the anniversary

I was wrong to come at night.

The woods are always worse without the sun, without the promise of the safety found in daylight. It denied both prey and predator the camouflage of a dimly lit moon, set the playing field equal, I figured, and made pickings easy with my bow. I can recall my father, a late afternoon spent hunting and swimming in our lake. I was merely 7 or 8 then, and desperately eager to watch the sun set below the shore of lapping waves, to see how the water reflected the muted orange and green of the treeline. But it was late , and my father urged me to move, exhorting that I had to keep to his pace if we were to reach the meadow by dark. I attempted several times to pull away and turn back to the forest, but he maintained his fierce grip on my hand.

That night, he approached me while I was readying myself for bed, and explained the dangers of the woods to me. Warned that a moonlit sky was the worst time for people like us to be hunting.

“But why people like us?” I had persisted him.

“Because we hunt for food, and _only_ food. And all the things that we hunt for, the smaller animals, the rabbits and birds and deer, are all asleep at night.”

“And?” I asked, not entirely convinced.

“And the woods aren’t made up only of small things. There are bigger animals too, bigger than me even. Predators. And they thrive when the sun goes down.”

“And then they hunt the smaller things?”

“The smaller things, and us” He explained in the smooth language that always reminded me of his singing voice. “And if we stay in the woods too late after dark, then we become the prey. Do you understand?”

Wolves. Bears. Mountain lions. These were the larger things my father described, and things I knew well by now. Or maybe only thought I knew, because it’s been so many years since I’ve hunted to survive, and not merely to trade or to feed me and Peeta with when we desired fresh game. I don't hunt for sport, but I rarely need to hunt for food now either. My family is no longer living here, and between me and Peeta, money isn't an issue. As a result, my trips to the woods are short, and overwhelmingly leisurely; It’s been so long since I've needed to remain in the woods for as long as possible.

Well, I’m here now. Sitting beneath a tree, unarmed, in clothing entirely unfit for this terrain.

And the moon is directly above my head.

* * *

 

It wasn’t any person’s fault, necessarily. I’m almost never seen without Peeta, except when I trade or hunt. We’re practically attached at the hip, and it certainly wasn’t him that drove me into the woods at such a dangerous hour. No one threatened me. Nothing went wrong at the Hob; I hadn’t gone there today anyway. It wasn’t even some nightmare that pushed my sanity over the edge, that sent me running from our house in the Victor’s Village and into the shadows of the woods.

No. It was none of these things. It was the date.

More specifically, it’s the anniversary.

Not my anniversary. Not the one shared by me and Peeta; the one day a year where we reenact our toasting in the coals of our fireplace, and he cooks the lamb stew that I still love so desperately. The one day, of many, when we remind ourselves that what we have together is real; and when we express this reality in our words, as well as our lips. That anniversary is private, between us only, and would never tempt me to seek refuge in the forest. This anniversary is far different than that.

It’s the 96th anniversary of the Hunger games.

It’s the 20th anniversary of the fall of Snow’s Panem. The one I destroyed.

Leave it to me, and not the previously hijacked Peeta, to be the one who is driven madly to the woods because of a calendar date.

* * *

 


	2. The Broadcast

That day always begins difficult enough.

Peeta knew as well as I that today would be painful; often, the mere thought of it makes both of us sick. We’d taken careful consideration to plan for it though, as we always did. Previously prepared meals were stored away in the ice box. Cheese buns baked the day prior were left out if I refused to eat, and Peeta had to force me. We had no agenda planned, going out of our ways to ensure a lack of previous engagements on that date, in case one of us couldn’t physically manage to leave the bed. And, above all things, the old pair of shackles, the ones Peeta used when we were invading the Capitol, miraculously unmarred by the explosion that killed my sister, and left the both of us severely burned. He insists we keep them locked away in a drawer within our bedside table, with a key only I have. They’re supposed to be used in case anything goes wrong with him, in case he loses control and has an episode, but they’ve remained locked in there since the war.

Typically we wait it out. Holding each other like we did on the train, or in the arena. Genuine sleep is scarcely found, but occasionally, one of us will drift off, only to be risen by a terrible nightmare and require comfort from the other. When it becomes too late in the day to stay in bed, we go downstairs for a modest meal (both of us typically too exhausted to cook), and usually end watching “We Remember,” on the small television we keep in the living room. Neither of us are too fond of the machine, since it reminds us of the propaganda from the war, but we keep it around for the news, and to watch this program every year.

It changes annually, but the “We Remember” broadcast serves as a reminder of the rebellion, and a commemoration to “The Mockingjay” as well as all who died for the new Panem. Remarkably, Caesar Flickerman is still alive to host it, but typically is accompanied by hosts and reporters from other districts, who each provide individual perspectives on selected topics. Each year they focus on a new area, a new subject of the war. Sometimes a district, or a landmark, or battle techniques, or a person. They always have plenty to talk about. Frequently, the subject is me. Other times, it’s been Peeta. More frequently, it’s both of us. Our stories. Our love. Our games. Our burns. Our rumored children.

But today, it is none of these things.

This year, their theme is “the children of the rebellion.”

And their first topic, was Prim.

* * *

 

This is why I’m lying under a tree, in the nearly pitch black night.

I feel the same way I did when the 3rd quell was announced; when I discovered that I was going back into the arena.

Entirely blindsided. Shot in the chest by a burned miner escaping the collapsed Nut.

I couldn’t take in the words right away. When Caesar stated the title of the program, Peeta was the first to absorb the information. I heard his gasp in my ear, and saw him twist his head across to me, his arms wrapped around my torso, as they were every year we watched the broadcast. He must have noticed my confusion at the screen, since he whispers with caution, “Katniss?”

The television is currently flashing an image of Primrose herself, while Caesar gawks on about “The Mockingjay’s little sister.” All I can think about is how happy she looks, before I realize that it’s the photo from the locket. Peeta’s locket. The picture he presented to me in our second arena- they must have stolen it from the video of him showing it to me, since it looks exactly the same.

“Katniss?”

I failed to see how quickly my own breath had sped up; it must have sounded like I was hyperventilating to him, while I tremble beneath his arms. He repeats my name for the third time, “Katniss? Do you need me to-

I don’t let him finish. Instead, I remove his arms from my chest, rise from the sofa, and sprint out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ummmmmm, so yeah.  
> a cliff hanger.  
> You must hate me.  
> Either way, there is always more ahead! and as always REVIEWS REVIEWS REVIEWS  
> best wishes,  
> apromptdiregarded.


	3. The Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Hopefully you don't hate me too much for this one...  
> Anyway, I always appreciate comments sent my way! I hope you enjoy (kind of...)!!  
> ALSO my AN from the first chapter of this fanfiction keeps appearing at the bottom of the page, so if you see it recognize that it's a mistake and doesn't apply to the current chapter. Thanks!
> 
> Best wishes,  
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

 

I had to get out of the house.

I couldn’t breath. The ashes, the ghosts of those I have lost, all the memories I have written in the book with Peeta, it seems they have come back to haunt me now. Escaped from the leather bindings of the words I have scrawled, the images Peeta has painted, the screams of the people I love are trapped in my throat, and working their way up my mouth.

I am being choked by the dead.

Their taste ferments on my tongue, in the residue behind my teeth, and in every orifice of my being. They threaten to rip my nerve endings to shreds with grief, to cloud my vision with the pain I have inflicted.

So I run away.

The sun is setting over my shoulder. I can feel the muted orange on my back, and although it’s not a warmth I can sense, the color is still ingrained on my spine. I’m certainly not fit properly for this terrain, though. I’m wearing essentially what I wore to bed; a light sweater, thin pants that are cinched at the ankles, and nothing more than slippers to cover my feet. My hair, a few strands loosened from its braid, now flaps wildly at my back as I move; like a tail, or a severed noose.

The temperature has decreased by several degrees, but in spite of the chill that ensues, I sprint past the grass lawn outside our house, avoiding the primroses still planted on the home’s exterior walls, and in the direction of the woods. I could hear Peeta’s unsteady gait on the front steps and into the gravel road, as he attempted to catch up with me while wearing his prosthetic. He continued to yell my name, panting, urging me back, urging me to slow down as he attempted to maintain pace. But I’ve always been faster than him, even at my age, and it seems that only minutes have passed since I’ve sprinted through the whole town and am approaching the fence. Not entirely sane, deep in my own mental nightmare, I dive through my old hole in the chain-link, and keep running until I’m forced to stop here, beneath this tree, from exhaustion.

I think there must be sweat on my brow, and in the small of my back, but I can’t feel it. I can’t sense anything. Even my heart seems to have lost all its nerves. My head is spinning in several directions, all I know is that I’m in the woods and there’s trees and oh god she’s dead she’s really dead she’s dead she’s dead she’s----

I scream that last part.

Here is where I truly break down for the first time in nearly 18 years. Sob. Howl. Tremble. Yell Prim’s name over and over. I feel like a deranged animal, ravaged by my own insanity, crushed against sorrow. I have a panic attack below the whistling leaves of a gentle maple tree. When it’s over, I lie limp under the branches. Numb, stagnant, but mostly cried out.

It’s odd, I think, that all of this was caused by one picture.

_She’s gone_ , I think, and something inside my chest feels raw and alone. I thought I had accepted it, moved on from her death, with Peeta’s help. I thought I was healing. But this pain for her is entirely new. It’s different from the initial grief, the mental fogginess that turned me into a living corpse when I first returned to twelve.

No, this pain is a reminder.

Like the broadcast. Like this moment, like this day every single year. Something that will never allow me to forget what happened.

It reminds me of her. And if one mere reminder is enough to tip me too far, there must be something wrong. For so long, I’ve pushed her away, wrote it down, talked it out in every direction, tried to escape the box of everything I feel. But trying to escape never works.

Moving on doesn’t work. Because moving on doesn’t happen. It never will.

If I ever want to get better, I have to _remember_ her.

**To heal is to not forget.**

I can’t hide, or push her death away.

**To heal is to not forget.**

I have to remember all the good that she was, and all the good that has occurred in spite of her death.

**To heal is to not forget.**

I have to remember the sister I love, and still love her.

**To heal is to not forget.**

And I finally understand.

And suddenly, it’s as if the fog clears from my vision. I can see everything, I’m surrounded by nature and greenery and memories and my mind absorbs it all. Trees, and fern, and moss, and small owls, and insects that speckle the forest.

And then, a pack of four wild dogs,

**staring straight down my nose.**

* * *

 


	4. The Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! I couldn't keep you on that cliffhanger for too long. Here's a new chapter!  
> Hope you enjoy!  
> (comments and kudos are always appreciated! Thanks!)
> 
> Best wishes,  
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

I was wrong to come at night.

I can almost sense my father shaming me from his grave as I feel the hot breath of a dog exhaled onto my face. There are four of them, all built and limber, and with no doubt incredibly fast. Their brown coats are notably shaggy, and there are twigs and leaves stuck between their matted quills of fur. Fortunately, my previously prone position has prevented them from actually noticing me, save for the smell I must give off beneath my clothes. My episode must have alerted them (well of course it did, I think, you were yelling so goddamn loud), and I mentally slap myself for leaving the house in such a whirlwind, improperly dressed and without a weapon.

Until I remember where I am.

In the woods.

Under the tree where I keep my bow and arrows.

* * *

_**"It's you, Katniss. Can't you see?" he says.** _

_**"What's me?" I say. "** _

_**Why they're all acting like this. Finnick with his sugar cubes and Chaff kissing you and that whole thing with Johanna stripping down." He tries to take on a more serious tone, unsuccessfully. "They're playing with you because you're so ... you know."** _

_**"No, I don't know," I say. And I really have no idea what he's talking about.** _

_**"It's like when you wouldn't look at me naked in the arena even though I was half dead. You're so ... pure," he says finally.** _

* * *

I suppose when I’m angry or upset (or my emotions simply get the best of me), I’m not necessarily observant. I wasn’t then, and apparently history repeats itself.

Of all the places in the forest, of course I came here. Even in a crazed state, the habit of removing my arrows daily imprinted the motion into my brain. My mind must have gone on autopilot when I ran off, and yet I traveled to the only definite place of safety. And now, I cannot thank this repetitive action enough. Shifting my eyes to the side, I can even see it. I can see the hole where my bow and arrows reside, and even in the dark, I can make out the feathered tip of one of these pointed weapons. Less than an arm’s reach away, but even that motion could be fatally dangerous.

While the dogs are still a good few feet from me, I know that they must hold an uncanny ability for pouncing on anything that moves. Already, I can hear them snarl, see their puffs of white breath through the dark. They’re anticipating something, and they’re certainly ready to take action. If I want any hope of defending myself, I’ll have to move just as swiftly, if not more.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I roll over to the hole in the tree, and yank my bow and a four arrows from the trunk, without even bothering to remove my sheath. In one swift motion, I spin on my heal, prop myself up on one knee, and pierce the eyes of two of the dogs, effectively killing them before they can even react to what I’ve done.

The third is somewhat quicker to the punch, and it leaps—teeth bearing—before my arrow penetrates its throat, and it collapses. Its attempt to attack me distorted my balance, though, and in less than a moment the fourth dog has mounted my torso and plants me on the ground, discarding my bow a good few feet away.

I struggle under its weight; managing to lift my arms above my face to prevent its jaws from tearing at my head. I’ve been kicking at its underbelly with my feet, but its claws and teeth continue to rip furiously at my skin, while my screams are muffled by its matted fur. My mind is still clouded from my run to the woods, and I’m far too weak to put up much of a fight against it, as I feel jaws penetrate my arms and legs.

* * *

_**Why am I not dead? I should be dead. It would be better for everyone if I were dead.** _

* * *

 

But suddenly, the dog is gone, sideswiped by a dark figure, who mounts its stomach and squeezes its furry neck in his/her fists. The animal whimpers under the figure’s weight, clawing until its paws gradually go limp.

Its stopped moving entirely.

The dog has died in seconds.

The air is far too murky and dark for me to catch the face of this individual, but as soon as the animal is dead he falls to his knees next to me.

“Katniss?”

Peeta. Of course. I should have known that he would follow me here. Even if I left him behind in the Victor’s Village, he would never stop looking until he had located me. Well, he’s found me now. “Peet..a” I say, and wince as I do, struggling with my words. I shiver under his gaze--Why am I suddenly so cold?

His face is worrisome and serious as he examines me, probing each wound until he determines the highest areas of concern; a deep bite mark on my left arm, and a carefully placed slash mark in the center of my abdomen that seems to be gushing blood. For now, the fact that I ran off has been forgotten, though I know we will be forced to discuss it later.

“I’m… so… sor-ry” and suddenly I feel hot tears on my cheeks, both from pain and anger at myself for treating him like this. I feel like a foolish child; running away, only to be founded injured and a complete mess.

“Shh, Katniss, Shh” he coons, “don’t get upset. Can you tell me what happened?” Now he really is treating me like a baby, but I suppose it’s the only way for me to absorb his words, my brain so preoccupied with hurt as it is.

“F-four dogs,” I stutter, “c-caught me by sur-surprise. T-took down t-three with a-arrows, forth dis-disarmed me.”

“We need to get you home.” He mutters, avoiding my eyes. At first, I try to walk by leaning heavily on him, but it becomes clear that my injuries were more severe than I gathered. The lack of blood makes me lightheaded, while one of my ankles refuses to hold any weight, which I assume was caused when I was toppled by the final dog.

I may be incurably stubborn, but when my legs entirely collapse under me, even I agree that it would be more sensible to be carried by him. Peeta can lift me with ease anyway. Besides, I'm so desperately cold, and his arms seem to radiate heat. I push myself farther into his chest, inhaling the scent of cinnamon, of dill, while we abandon the four dog carcasses--and a very scary pool of blood-- in the woods. Trying to ignore the screaming pain of my skin and joints, I focus on his unsteady gait until we reach the Victor's Village.

I’m unconscious before we even make it inside.

* * *

 


	5. The End(?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! More to read! But we have something to talk about.
> 
> Alright, here's the deal:
> 
> Initially, I wanted this to be the final chapter. I had intentions to end this fic here. BUT I'm willing to keep writing if you guys want me to. I love writing this fic, and if people like reading it, I'm willing to maintain it. I just need reason to. So, if you're out there, I would really really appreciate comments and inspiration to keep it going. Thank you! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Best Wishes,
> 
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

 

The cold is what finally wakes me.

My eyes open shallowly, just enough to focus on my surroundings. From what I can tell, I’m back in mine and Peeta’s normal bed, under the covers, in our house in the Victor’s Village. As far as I know, the only thing that’s off is the temperature. It’s freezing cold. So much so that I move to pull the comforter closer to my body, in an attempt to prevent any wasted heat from leaving me.

That’s when I feel the pain.

My chest is throbbing, as well as my skin, and I peer down my torso just enough to take a peek at the damage from last night. What I see is nauseating.

About 20 different groups of evenly placed stitches, have been widely spread in various areas below my neck. I look like a quilted version of my usual self, with gauze wraps on my abdomen and arm, which I remember held more severe injuries. It’s difficult to see very far down the length of my body, but I’m pretty sure my leg is propped up on something as well. The stitches remind me of the burn scars, and of the fire mutts Peeta and I became so long ago. Memories so far away I can scarcely recall them. My mind is cloudy though, and I feel like I’m being ripped in seven different directions and _oh god I’m dizzy and confused and-_

“Katniss! You’re awake!” Peeta gasps as he walks through the doorframe. I try to sit up, to reach him, but he’s by my side in an instant.

“No Katniss, don’t. You’ll just aggravate the wounds.” He speaks as gently as possible. I oblige, exhausted from even that act, and lower myself back into the pillow, his hand placed in the small of my back to guide me. I’m shivering, but Peeta seems completely fine with the lack of heat, only wearing a T-shirt and thin pants. _What is he, some kind of titanium?_ I think.

“What happen?” I ask, finding my voice shallow and raspy.

“You passed out before we got back home. I had to call your mother; ask her how to stitch you up, how to treat your injuries.” he explains, “it wasn’t until a few hours ago that I saw you shivering like this, and I found out that you had a fever,” I wrench the back of my own hand to my forehead, only to find it burning hot. That explains why I thought it was so cold.

“So, I went downstairs to get this” he says, gesturing as he places a cool cloth on my head--to which I visibly sigh when it hits my boiling forehead--“and now you’re awake.” His pointer finger and thumb tentatively graze my ear.

His voices takes on a more serious tone, but his pinch has quieted, as if he’s afraid.“ I thought you... were going to die, Katniss. Frankly, I still do.”

I can’t tell if I’m burning or freezing anymore. Peeta’s words surprise me, so I remain silent as he looks down at the floor.

“Now it’s your turn to answer; What happened last night, Katniss?”

I’m terrified, but I know I have to respond, “I-I told you. There were dogs and they--”

“No, before that,” he stresses. “With the ‘We Remember’ broadcast. What happened then?”

My eyes find his, and I can see so much pain absorbed in his gaze. He’s afraid for me; he’s scared that I’ll relapse, he wants to help in any way he can. I need him to understand.

“The program. Seeing...her, again, it sent me, over the edge.” I’m struggling with my words; likely from the fever and my own despair. “I had to get out… it felt like there was something in the air, in the house...choking--”

“I know that,” Peeta says, “I've felt sensations like that before, I mean. It’s like the dead are suffocating you through the walls,” he explains, always better with his words than me.

I nod. He does understand, at least somewhat.

“So I went to the woods. It’s the only place...safe.” He gives me a look. “Well, not really.” I say, my eyes fluttering down to my battered body.

“I thought, things were getting better, for both of us,” he says, in a voice that’s nearing a whisper. “But we were always so focused on me, on my hijacking, and insuring that I wouldn’t have any episodes. It was always me, getting me better, fixing my brain. I feel like, we forgot about you. Mentally, I mean. I didn’t even realize that this kind of thing could happen anymore.” He’s avoiding my gaze, partly because he knows what I will see within it.

Shame. He hates himself. He blames himself for my state.

It’s hard for me to grasp his words, as trapped in the world of fever as I am, but I manage to form my own.

“You can’t blame yourself for this, especially when none of it was your fault. Not the hijacking or anything.” And it’s true. In reality, it was my fault; I second-handedly caused his hijacking when I left him at the lightning tree that night so many years ago, and I was the one who ran into the woods last night. But I avoid saying that.

“Peeta, it’s Snow’s fault; real or not real?”

I’m pulling out an old game, one we haven’t played since we were very young. But he remembers anyway.

“Real. Anything tragic that ever happened was because of Snow,” He answers finally. But now it’s his turn to question me.

He considers his words, and asks: “We will never fully move on; real or not real?”

After a moment’s pause, I say, “Real. Too many people are dead. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get better; just that, healing entirely is impossible.”

It should be my turn to ask him a question now, but instead he cheats and forces something else out quickly before I can speak.

“And we love each other; Real or not real?” He seems fearful, begging for an answer.

Without hesitating, I whisper, “Real. You love me. I love you. It’s always been real.”

And it’s as if all the cold fades away. All I feel is his warmth, the heat in his veins, in the air around him, that I want to steal so desperately.

**So I kiss him.**

* * *

 


	6. The Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your calls have been answered! I couldn't resist writing a new chapter. I've decided to make this Fic more Everlark centric, so I'm using this chapter as a kind of test to see how well I can write romance. Obviously there will be action in later chapters, but I wanted to write some utter fluff for once.
> 
> That aside. I could really use feedback! I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!
> 
> Best Wishes,
> 
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

The winter comes before my wounds heal.

"You see, what's great about this is that _now_ you can't run away to the woods until you're entirely better," Peeta teases, "and that I've got you all to myself until then."

We've been on the couch since I can remember. Our living room is the warmest area in the house, and the whole district is snowed in, so we've been camped out for days in the space.

Or, at least I have. I've been banned from moving on my own since the accident, and can only travel throughout our home with Peeta's assistance; ergo, he carries me everywhere and forbids me from standing up straight.

Admittedly, he has good reason to be overprotective.

For the first few days since the attack, things looked far bleaker than they do now; I became so sick I could scarcely move, and was left bedridden by a fever so intense that Peeta was forced to call our newly established District 12 healer.

With time, though, my condition improved, and my wounds showed signs of healing. I'm still incredibly weak, however, and am unable to walk yet, with explains our current position; me, lying on the couch in Peeta's lap, while he toys with my hair or reads a book out loud. It's quite peaceful, really, and I'm reminded of a specific week so many years ago; just before my second Hunger Games, when I injured my ankle and Peeta worked on the plant book with me. Both of us seem entirely content and calm while a heavy snows just outside the window.

That doesn't stop me from complaining, however.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you won't still be laughing when I can't trade, and we're left to dig out canned food from the pantry for meals," I mutter bitterly.

Much to my dismay, Peeta leans down, and begins to shower my head in tiny kisses. I try to stubbornly pull away, but he continues to pluck at my skin, playfully kissing a circle around the edge of my face.

"I...don't...care if… we eat… _this couch_ ," he says between kisses, smiling, "as long… as we… eat… together."

"Mhmmm, gross." I murmur. "And speaking of eating, what exactly do you plan on making for dinner?"

He pulls away, with a playful pout of his upper lip.

"Oh, I see. You only want me for my cooking abilities - is that it?" he smirks.

"Obviously. After all, you _are_ the one with a weakness for beautiful things," I say nonchalantly. I'm sure he remembers this old recollection from the tribute parade during the Quarter Quell.

"Yeah, and even with all your scars and stitches I have to admit that you're absolutely _ravishing_ ," he says, batting his eyelashes jokingly.

I frown; not with any malice, but merely to get his attention.

He notices.

" _Fine fine_ , I cave!" he laughs, pulling up his arms in defeat. "You and that deadly stare win every time. I'll go cook something up, okay?"

I nod, satisfied, and I let him scoot his legs out from under my head.

But not before he gets off one more kiss on my cheek.

"I'll make something special." He whispers, and I can already see him racking his brain for the most fantastic meal he can imagine.

"Thank you." I respond gently.

Then I allow him to barricade himself in the kitchen while I wait.

* * *

And, as luck has it, Peeta never disappoints.

The smell hits my nose before I even know he's beside me. When I crane my head around, I see a transfixing platter of all the foods I love strewn about the coffee table. Row upon row of cheese buns, hearty breads, lamb stew, small birds stuffed with orange sauce, even a few of the soups I adored in the Capitol. Hot chocolate, and even a whole bowl of the stuff, melted, that I remember eating with Cinna.

And, behind the feast of his creation, Peeta. A towel flung over his shoulder, slightly exhausted, but completely overjoyed by his work. I have no idea how he found the time to compose all this. Perhaps he knew a few of the recipes, but I sure for the most part he was cooking from memory.

It doesn't matter. I am astounded.

"Peeta-" I start, trying to sit up; but I find myself wincing.

"Not so fast." he speaks up, suddenly kneeling beside the couch. He leads my head back down on a throw pillow, then whispers, smiling:

"I plan on sharing the best meal we've ever had together, tonight. And if that means that I have to feed you every bite, I'm happy to do so." He's starting to spoon up some stew for me to swallow, but I interject.

"But then you'll be miserable," I say.

To my surprise, he starts _laughing_.

Genuinely laughing. He's chuckling like he did during the Quarter Quell, when he called me _pure_ after Johanna stripped down in front of us.

"What?" I urge, completely confused.

Peeta composes himself. "You're seriously doubting how much I enjoy your company, Katniss. Feeding you is practically a treat. Now open up; please?" He holds the heaping spoonful over my nose.

**I open my mouth.**

* * *

 


	7. The Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter! I hope you enjoy, and REMEMBER to comment if you enjoyed it. Also if you didn't enjoy it, because I'm eager for criticism.
> 
> In other news,
> 
> You can also send me comments with suggestions of what to put in later chapters. It can be a word, a character, something you've always wanted to see in a fic, or an entire plotline. Just send me a request, and I'll see if I can incorporate it (and I will always give you credit if your suggestion is included, unless you don't want it). I want some more inspiration for this fic, and I would love to see what you have to say!
> 
> As usual, enjoy!
> 
> Best wishes,
> 
> Apromptdisregarded.

* * *

**We ate everything.**

I’m not even sure how we manage it. Eventually, Peeta’s spoon makes a habit of traveling from the bowl to my mouth (as well as his; we’ve made no effort to use separate utensils), and before long every platter has been scraped to its edges. And anyway, everything is so utterly fantastic, so diverse in flavors and consistencies, that I feel shameful to waste anything.

“Honestly, Peeta, you’ve probably used half of the pantry to make this; We’ll starve before this storm levels out.”

On normal days, I would never mention the thought of starvation in such a casual way, as accustomed to it as I am. But my mind seems fuzzy with food, stuffed to my skin with rolls, and birds dripping in orange sauce, and soups (oh, and the chocolate, I had nearly forgotten). The haziness that the feeling of full brings forces me to watch my tongue.

“Well, you seemed plenty happy while you were eating it,” Peeta smirks.

“That’s because it was _delicious_.” I counter matter-a-factly.

“Well, then, I don’t see the problem. If it makes you content, I would gladly roast _myself_ on a spit and serve my body to you whole,” Peeta retortes with a flirtatious edge to his voice.

The trouble is, as disgusting as this sounds, he probably would.

And I would probably do the same.

“Yeah, sure,” I respond coolly, with the slightest hint of sarcasm. “And I’m confident you’ll _remain_ content even when you have to clean up this whole mess, seeing as I can't leave my current position.” my eyes gesture to the various stained plates littering the coffee table.

Suddenly, Peeta jumps up, and assumes a straight-backed position, with his arms clamped at his sides. I’m confused for a moment, worried that he might be in the midst of an episode, until he raises his hand to his forehead in a mock salute.

**“Sir yes Sir! Mrs. Mellark, Sir! I will wash these dishes until they are spotless, Sir!”** He yells in joking seriousness.

Just as he’s picking up the platters (maintaining a straight-back, no less, and looking more like a right angle than a person) I burst out laughing, but it turns to a wince; the compression of air in my diaphragm placing stress on my abdomen stitches.

His facade is gone for a moment, and the caring Peeta has returned immediately. “What’s wrong?”he asks urgently, easing my head back to the pillow, and inspecting my wounds.

I shake my head; the moment of pain having passed. “It’s alright now.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Now get back to work, soldier Peeta.” I smile.

He lifts the edges of his mouth. **“Yes Mrs. Mellark! Right on it!”** he bursts, and proceeds to march into the kitchen with an informal beat, all the while managing about 12 different soiled plates in his arms.

I try not to stare at his rear-end while he walks away.

* * *

 An hour later, we’re back in our previous position.

My head rests cradled in Peeta’s lap, supported by the warmth of his thighs, while his feet are elevated and crossed on the now-spotless coffee table. The fireplace has been lit (after Peeta’s ten unsuccessful attempts), and burns in a slow, churning way, while the room reflects its orange haze and warmth. With full bellies, and the heat working therapeutically on both of our joints, we’re far too exhausted to move.

Peeta has been reading something aloud to me; it’s a book, a play, really, about two teenagers in a place called Italy who fall in love. Only, they live in feuding households, and their romance is “forbidden.” I’ve never read it, but Peeta tells me that it’s a “classic.” I enjoy the story enough; the only trouble is that it’s terribly difficult to understand the language.

Tonight, though, I can’t seem to focus on Peeta’s words. I’ve been staring at the fireplace, but my eyes have been shifting, ever so slowly, to the black television screen. Peeta’s voice drones on, but I’m thinking of something else. With the feeling of hunger having freed up ample space in my brain, I’ve found my mind drifting into other topics unconsciously. _Some less welcome than others._

I can’t stop thinking about the “We Remember” broadcast.

It’s a topic that’s been on my mind for a while now, even since the early days following the accident. Caught in the darkest regions of fever and illness, unable to differentiate illusion from reality, I could feel myself considering what I saw on that screen so many nights ago. Obviously the thought of it continues to terrify me, but there’s more to my emotions than fear. The night the program aired, I was _only_ afraid. That’s why I ran to the woods. The Children of the Rebellion suffocated me. Now, though, I feel a dying need to understand it. I have to know what they said; about Prim, about me. About every child who died, or who lived through the war. My mind is clearer now than it has ever been, knowing all the tragedy it has seen. And I feel, deep down, that I desperately owe these children my attention.

No, that I _want_ them to have it.

I remember when I was only 11, and Peeta preserved my life when he tossed me bread in rain. For a long time I could not recognize how pivotal a moment it was. I thought I owed him something, and it wasn’t until perhaps the end of the war that I realized there was no debt to pay. The relationship between Peeta and I involves more than a mere exchange; we have connected to each other by our experiences, not by payments to one or the other. We are inseparable. We _want_ to share our love.

These children are dead. I have no debts to pay to their corpses; not even Prim’s. But I _want_ to understand.

I need to.

So, without a moment’s hesitation, I allow my thoughts to penetrate the air.

**“I want to watch it.”**

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally written another chapter! Admittedly, it is both short and long overdue, but it's here. I hope you enjoy it, and remember to comment and do whatever else so I am reminded to keep writing this.
> 
> In other news...
> 
> I need inspiration.
> 
> I told you guys last time, but now I'm serious. I honestly don't know what to do with this fic. I love it to death, but I don't know what to do about it! I need help! I'm taking suggestions of any kind at this point. What do you want to see? As long as it's not smut or Gale, I'd be happy to write about it. As far as I'm concerned, this can become a fanfic of oneshots that you guys really want to see. Kinda like EverlarkFicQuestions, if you've seen that Tumblr page. Or whatever. I would love to know what you have o say.
> 
> Also, I'm desperate.
> 
> Best Wishes,
> 
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

 Peeta closes the book so quietly it's almost imperceivable. The pages shut against each other with a gentle clap, and he rests it on the couch's armrest.

I feel his chest rise and fall. He's considering what I've said.

"You want to...watch, it?" he asks, his voice shaking slightly. He knows what I'm referring to, surely he must. But he's terrified of it.

It's odd, I think, how we've developed such a keen detection of what the other is thinking. I sense his emotions effortlessly now, and he understands my thoughts even when I can't put words to them.

"Yes," I say, and I crane my head to meet his eyes. The corners of his eyelids are filled with tears that are moments from spilling over, and forming tiny rivers down his cheeks.

I don't know why he's crying.

"I have to," I tell him. "I want to. Even if the entire broadcast is false, and all Capitol-made, I need to see it, Peeta. For them." and he knows I'm talking about all of those dead children, the ones burned alive outside Snow's Mansion, the ones in the districts, the ones who lived in 12 or 13.

"For Prim." I say so quietly, that I'm sure my sister's ghost could never hear me.

I know the snow has stopped, at least momentarily, because I hear rain beginning to fall outside, pecking the edges or our livingroom window. We'll have nothing but sludge tomorrow, I think. Everything will be so slippery. But it doesn't matter. I can't leave the house, and I never let Peeta out of my sight anyway.

"Would you..with me?" I need his help in this. I couldn't survive, watching it on my own.

His response is silence.

* * *

**"Peeta, if I asked you to run away from the district with me, would you?"**

**Peeta takes my arm, bringing me to a stop. He doesn't need to check me face to see if I'm serious. "Depends on why you're asking."**

**"President Snow wasn't convinced by me. There's an uprising in District Eight. We have to get out," I say.**

**"by 'we' do you mean just you and me? No. Who else would be going?" he asks.**

**"My family. Yours, if they want to come. Haymitch, maybe," I say.**

**"What about Gale?" he says. "I don't know. He might have other plans,"**

**I say. Peeta shakes his head and gives me a rueful smile. "I bet he does. Sure, Katniss, I'll go."**

**I feel a slight twinge of hope. "You will?"**

**"Yeah. But I don't think for a minute you will," he says.**

* * *

Peeta's lips don't move for what feels as long as hours. He's stopped looking at me, and now stares straight ahead, allowing the salty liquid to escape him, rolling along the contours of his face and edge of his nose.

For the first time, I find him impossible to read. Is he happy? Enraged? Confused? The tears suggest sadness, but his face reflects no feeling at all. He seems completely stagnant; his legs are stiff beneath my head. More a fleshy mannequin than the person I've known innumerable years.

Something is wrong, but I can't quite detect it.

I search his eyes, for anything. A spark, a plume of recognition, a boiling flame of anger or passion. I dig deep into him, fill up a cavern to find where the real Peeta has hidden within this structure of meat and human. I check corners, shadows, claw myself into the dirt of his pupils to see if he might have been buried somehow, under his thoughts.

But I come up empty.

"Peeta?" I ask, my voice nearing silence and desperation.

Suddenly he rises, mechanically, careful to remove my head and place it back into the empty crater his presence formed on the coach. His movements are robotic, prepared and thought out to the very step in advance, but Peeta seems to be struggling with something. He walks, with firm resolve, to the edge of the stairs, twists his neck briskly, and states,

"I… have to, take… a second. To...t-think."

He's wincing, barely able to form words, and sprints up the stairs to our bedroom. I just hear him lock the door before a yell of pain rips through the house. He's screaming, yelling at himself, almost as if he's arguing between two people. I hear things clatter on the floor, and immediately I'm shrieking as loud as him, which I'm sure only makes it worse.

It hasn't been this bad in years.

An episode. Like the ones he had when we were young. Something about the broadcast, wanting to watch it, Prim, it must have set him off. He sought refuge in our room for my own protection.

**And I'm hopeless to help him.**

* * *

 


	9. The Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! another chapter! I made this one extra long, just to make up for last time. But I could still use comments for support, and it's never too late to give me suggestions for later chapters! I'm always willing to take your suggestions!
> 
> Warning: this one is full of flashbacks and Finnick feels.
> 
> As always, enjoy!
> 
> Best Wishes,
> 
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

 It feels like an eternity ago.

But I still feel his hands on my neck.

_His fingers lock around my throat._

I remember the collar, too. I know the way it cradled my esophagus, and the bruised skin on my neck. I can recall thinking it was cold, as well; I couldn't stop shivering, and I have an image of Prim, carrying blankets to my hospital bed to swaddle my body in. But a few years following the war, I allowed myself to forget how the cool metal felt on me. In my memory, there is a chill, but my senses can't perceive it anymore.

Until tonight.

* * *

We've been thrown back in time.

It's been at least a decade since the last one like this.

**_Before~~~~_ **

It was a full year since Peeta returned from the Capitol.

The war was over, but the two of us were still forced to medicate our burn scars with special salves and oils, that we each worked into the other's skin when necessary. We were living together by then, sleeping in the same bed. Though it was never communicated, we both recognized that neither of us would be able to find rest without our skin touching, our arms intersected to ward off nightmares and murdered ghosts. But our relationship was still shaky, at best. Terrors plagued my dreams, and clutching the side of tables or armchairs was often Peeta's only way of holding on.

Together, we formed a deteriorating mess.

It was only the memory book that maintained our sanity. Bound in old leather and paper from the Capitol, It soon became a desperate project, our sacred object of relief. As it seemed, recollecting those we had lost was the only possible way to communicate with each other. Page after page of expelled grief and thoughtful sentiment. That explained, I suppose, why we never cried when we worked on it. Although it forced us to remember the agonies of those we'd once known, our efforts exhausted any capacity for real emotion. The tears came before or after, and that was the way we preferred it to be. The entire thing held fantastic healing abilities. Perfect for fire mutts and our rotted brains.

It happened the day we did Finnick.

You'd think it would be Prim, or even his abusive mother, who would set him off. But they were the first we wrote down. We made sure that her, and Peeta's family had their seats first reserved on our imported parchment. They happened too early to merit any kind of hijacked response from Peeta. He was fresh from the Capitol then, fresh from his therapy and well-aware of the techniques he used to suppress the mutt within him. It was only months after that I found him getting sloppy about it. He would skip steps or rituals for convenience, telling me that he "didn't need them" anymore. Of course, it felt better to have him closer to me, but I wanted his health more than anything else.

We did Finnick too late.

It wasn't because we forgot; neither of us couldn't seem to drop the golden Odair from our mind. We understood him, and loved him in a way only Victors can love others. We all knew similar despairs, and knowledge of his forced prostitution and enslavement for the Capitol only increased my respect for him. He was the only one who empathized with me in 13 (save for Haymitch), and the only person who spoke to Peeta in squad 451, who attempted to ease his hijacked mind. The beautiful boy with his precious knots, and his sea-green eyes, and his baby, from which Annie was the mother.

And we both saw him die in less than a minute. Murdered by lizard mutts who reeked of roses and whispered my name. Blown away by the Holo, which I detonated to save the rest of us.

So, it was only natural that the subject of Finnick was avoided whenever possible.

Before his name was scrawled in the memory book, we endured heavy months of procrastination. We couldn't very well just leave him out, given how much we kept thinking of him. But neither of us wanted to propose it. He was too much to bear, and he meant too much for both Peeta and me.

It was finally Haymitch who quenched our silence. He was ghastly drunk, and we were helping him feed Peeta's bread to his geese in the midst of a minor snowstorm. We wanted him to contribute the 23 years of lost tributes he mentored.

"Yeah, sure I'll put 'em in there for ya. Say, when are you two gonna put that damn Odair in that book of yours? Can't leave a pretty face like that out of the 'dead friend' club for too long."

It was already snowing, but his words made us freeze anyway.

Of course, we had to excuse the lack of consideration in his statement. He was drunk after all, and he was Haymitch, so empathy was never a concept he genuinely understood.

Of course, Finnick was far more than a pretty face.

Of course, the memory book wasn't merely a collection of "dead friends."

But he was right. We couldn't ignore that man and his sugar-cubes forever.

* * *

When we made the trek across the Victor's village, to our home, I tried my best to discuss it with him.

"Haymitch is right, you have to...talk about it." There was nobody around, but I spoke in a whisper as my breath was expelled in tiny clouds of fog. The snow crunched beneath our boots and I pulled my jacket closer. White flakes drifted to the ground at an increasing rate.

"I...know," it took him a while to respond, and his words felt strained, as if releasing them brought him pain. I should have seen it then, really. The signs were apparent, given his labored walk and clenched fists, but I was incapable of adding it all together.

"It's Finnick, after all. We _both_ loved him. Just because he's...gone...doesn't make him invisible," I say, "we have to stop pretending we can't remem-"

"Stop."

His legs ceased in his tracks.

"What?"

"Just _stop_."

his breath sped, as if he was in the midst of a panic attack.

"Peeta…"

His expression was crazed, driven mad, back to the realm of the hijacked. It was then when his condition finally resonated with me.

"Katniss… leave. now. I don't want to-hurt… you…" He winced, forcing the words out of him.

I'm not sure where my streak of bravery came from. But I stepped closer.

"You won't."

His hands were screwed tight over his ears.

"You will never hurt anybody."

He's screaming, I think, but the snow is falling too quickly and I feel wind rush past my ears.

"You're better than him. Snow is dead, and he's never coming back."

The both of us are crouched in fetus position, and my arms cradle his agonized face.

"Not real, Peeta. Not real."

I pull him closer.

" _Please._ "

He's yelling things to himself. We're both crying, and our tears mix like soup that's gone too salty. Our limbs muddle together, until I'm not sure which is arm and which is prosthetic leg.

We huddle for hours. The snow keeps falling. We're buried by midnight.

We caught pneumonia a day afterward.

We did Finnick while freezing and feverish.

Peeta never got sloppy with his therapy again.

And we stopped ignoring things we didn't want to talk about.

**What will we do this time?**

* * *

 


	10. The Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! Another chapter! Remember to comment opinions and suggestions!
> 
> (side note: The idea to focus on Peeta getting Hijacked came from a lovely guest comment! Thanks Whoever you are!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Best Wishes,
> 
> Apromptdisregarded.

* * *

 I have to reach him him.

I couldn't care less about my injuries, at this point. I could be broken and bloody, I could have severed limbs, or my mind could be racked with illness. It doesn't matter anymore. Peeta's the only real medicine I've ever required, and he's screaming his head off upstairs.

A glass of water left standing on the coffee table shivers and ripples with each vibration, as his sounds erupt through the house. I hear flesh hitting plaster walls and I feel my arms tense, my complexion melt into a grimace.

Glass is breaking. I think it's the lamp on our side table.

"Real or not real!? Real or not real!?" He's wailing the words.

I the only one who can answer him. I'm the single individual who can help him at a time like this.

I'm reminded of the wild mutts, the ones who tore me to shreds in the woods. The saliva that built up at the corners of their jaws. Pitch-black pupils that blended with the dark of night and seemed to be only cavernous holes in their heads. These animals that crippled me. I may have been the one who ran to the woods that night, but it is because of their damage that I'm left unable to reach Peeta now.

Although, It's my fault he's up there in the first place.

"Peeta! Peeta please! Not real! Not real!" I'm gasping now, yelling from the living room, knowing my words may not even reach him. My cheeks are wet, and I wonder why I didn't notice my tears before.

But he only screams harder, louder. The Victor's Village is racked with his cries, but me and Haymitch are the only ones who can hear him. And Haymitch is probably too drunk to care anyway. I'm the only one left. Peeta needs my hands on his face, I need to whisper the words _not real_ to him a thousand times over, until the poison Snow planted in him long ago finally recedes. I've done it before, and I know it's the only way, _I'm_ the only way, to calm the smoke clouding his mind. I can't help him if I'm not with him.

So I sit up.

* * *

**Agony.**

Our house is a chorus of screams. Mine and Peeta's howls blend together, into a horrifying quartet of ceaseless suffering.

I force myself to stand and, favoring my good leg, limp toward the stairs, using the table and leaning on the wall heavily as a guide. I feel my face screwed in a look of total pain, can see black spots swirl in my vision, and sense vomit gurgling up the back of my throat, but it doesn't matter anymore. I'm numb to everything, fighting my primal instinct to _stay alive_ , while I focus my thoughts on an entirely different goal.

_Peeta._

I know I've torn stitches because warmth begins to flow down my arm, and my white shirt is sticking to my abdomen, slowly turning red at the area of my wound.

I hope the mess doesn't unhinge Peeta further; I know blood can be an occasional trigger for him.

Adrenaline must be quaking in my system, because while I can see bite marks and cuts reopening, and my ankle twisting inwardly on itself, I scarcely feel any of these sensations. I make my way halfway up the stairs before I'm forced to use my hands on the steps as well, like a monkey, because I think I might fall over if I don't.

I know he locked the door behind him, but we keep an extra key to the bedroom hidden away in case of situations like these. It's location alters every month, but right now it's wedged in the small gap between the wall and our hallway light. I use my better arm to yank it free, then lean my worse side on the wall, while dragging myself toward the cream-colored door that marks our place of rest.

I leave a long smear of blood on the wall as I go.

* * *

My hands are shaking vigorously by the time I reach the door handle, and I fumble with the key for a few moments before inserting it through the hole, and turning it with quivering fingers. I'm putting so much pressure on the door that when I push it open, I fall forward, but catch myself on the ground with my hands.

Then I see him.

The room has been darkened severely, due to the side-table lamp shattered on the floor. He's only a shadow on the floor in the corner, just to the left of our bed, but the moans he's emitting signify that he's there. His hands are locked over his ears, his face screwed up in a perpetual look of pain;

_He's struggling to hold on_.

"Peeta" I release involuntarily.

At my words he grows stiff, but I can see a split-second of relief surge through him, before he's driven back into the world of the hijacked.

"Kat.. _niss,_ " he forces out through clenched teeth. " _ple..._ ase… _leave..._ "

I rise and move toward him with caution.

"No."

His neck jerks awkwardly to the side.

"You're not going to hurt me Peeta."

I crouch down and hold his face in my hands. Salty tears run through my fingers.

"Not real. It's not real."

Then I lean forward and kiss him. His face is red and he winces as my lips make contact with his. But I can feel his tense body release.

" _Not real."_

Our breath intertwines in a cloud of heat and the words "Not real," over and over.

" _Not real."_

He's repeating the phrase with me now.

" _Not real."_

We touch our foreheads together and hold them there.

" _Not real."_

I can feel him coming back to me; his arms are growing softer, stronger, each time we say it.

" _Not real."_

I shift my eyes down to the side for a single moment.

On the ground, in the dark, I can make out a pool of dark liquid growing around us.

Blood.

" _Not real._

**It's the last one I make out before the whole world goes black.**

* * *

 


	11. The Morphling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really short, but I wanted to upload something in honor of Fanfic Author Appreciation day!
> 
> Please leave comments, or favorites, or ANYTHING. As a writer I need them to keep going.
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!
> 
> Best Wishes,
> 
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

 When I finally swim upward into a vague consciousness, I feel as though I've been drowning in a thick, translucent lake for hundreds of years. My limbs are unfamiliar to the open air, like I've been floating in a sticky membrane, and solid ground is now a foreign object to me. My mouth and eyes, my arms and the muscles within my legs don't feel my own, as if they're made of wood, rather than flesh and bones.

I feel strange, drained, my body seems too cavernous to be human. For a moment, I'm convinced that my skin has been replaced with twigs and dead weeds, but the constant breath traveling from my mouth to my lungs drags me back into reality.

_**Morphling dulls the extremes of all emotions, so instead of a stab of sorrow, I merely feel emptiness.** _

I remember Peeta. I remember our bedroom. But the details are foggy and unfamiliar.

_Where am I?_

There's a mattress, _our_ mattress, rubbing up against my spine. I remember the lumps and ditches in it, formed over the many years of sleeping atop, and pushing into its metal springs, cradled in each other's arms. My eyelids are abnormally heavy but the smell permeating the air is enough to tell me I'm home. The scent that comes up from our walls and floorboards is always reminiscent of freshly prepared bread, even when Peeta isn't baking.

_Peeta._

The episode. Locking himself in the bedroom. Me, coming to him. Blood.

I can't see. I can't move. I can't even hear. But I find my vocal cords reaching for him. I'm screaming something, his name, I think, and my throat is so raw and dry that it hurts. But I don't care anymore.

_Please come to me._

_Please, Peeta._

_I need you._

_Stay with me._

Only, he doesn't come.

But the needle does.

I feel its tip plunge into my arm, and release a soupy substance that numbs the very edge of my being. The world surrounding me seems too surreal, too soft, too plush to be genuine.

Morphling.

The drug I've come to hate so intensely. I want to strangle whoever pumped the substance into my arm, I want to knock them senseless, but I'm slipping too quickly to comprehend my own thoughts, much less act on them.

I'm grasping at straws now, but I manage to mumble my disdain toward the figure holding the syringe before the morphling drags me away, under my breaking waves of consciousness.

" _please..no more...drugs."_

"Nice try, but the answer is no, sweetheart."

**I'm going to kill Haymitch.  
**

* * *

 


	12. The Discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! This will be my last one before I start school again, but I wanted to knock a chapter out just because.
> 
> Again! I need comments and suggestions! Without them I have no motivation to keep writing, and it will be even harder for me to keep this Fic up after summer ends anyway! So TALK to me!
> 
> FYI: I wanted to bring closure to a few things during this chapter, because the next one will likely take place later, after Katniss has healed.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Enjoy!
> 
> Best wishes,
> 
> apromptdisregarded.

* * *

_**The Victor's Village is racked with his cries, but me and Haymitch are the only ones who can hear him. And Haymitch is probably too drunk to care anyway. I'm the only one left.** _

So I was wrong then.

Haymitch is old and gray, but remarkably still alive, despite the damage years of hard liquor have surely placed on his body and liver. He shouldn't still be here, really, but we wake each morning and, by some miracle, we find him unconscious in a pool of vomit, or tending his geese without fail. Sometimes I ask him if he'll just hurry up and die already, which always seems to merit a smirk from him, and a lecture from Peeta on "respecting those who are older than us."

Secretly though, I wish he could live forever.

But god forbid I ever say that to him.

" _Where is he?"_

"I already told you. Passed out cold on the sofa downstairs, won't be up for hours; the sleep syrup made sure of that. No thanks to your little stunt."

I awoke definitively in our bed only a few minutes ago, with Haymitch caught perpetually slouching in a rocking chair some feet away, and news from the district healer that the severe stress to my injuries merited two further weeks of bedrest. I might have been lucid sooner, but the gauzy tendrils of morphling kept me trapped beneath consciousness longer than I'd prefer.

"I'll kill you for this."

"For what? Drugging you so you'd stop screaming loverboy's name? Knocking you out so I could clean up that godawful bloody mess you left on the floor in peace? Sorry, sweetheart, but your opinion wasn't something I cared to consider."

"Is he alright?" Peeta and I are long-since married, but Haymitch still treats us as though we're still "the star crossed lovers from district 12," playing a role for the cameras.

"Jesus Katniss, _Peeta is fine_. How many times to I have to explain; he's just exhausted, worried about you, probably. What the hell were you thinking? You could have killed yourself,or worse; the boy could have killed you by accident."

"He wouldn't have. You know that."

"Maybe. But if you had died trying to help him? We both know Peeta could never live without you. You don't always need to be the hero, sweetheart."

"I'm the only person who can bring him back from an episode. What was I supposed to do; leave him to suffer alone?"

For the first time in years, he raises his voice at me.

"Look at yourself Katniss!" he gestures toward the whole of my battered body. "We all could have lost you, not just Peeta. I know you love him, but your injuries-"

"My _injuries_ don't matter. Peeta is safe. I'm alive. End of discussion."

He rises and makes haise for the door. "Suit yourself."

"And Haymitch?"

"What do you want now?"

"Thank you."

He sighs deeply. He can't be angry with me forever; it's not our way.

"I know sweetheart. Take care of yourself."

And he's gone, back to his home with a bottle of liquor swinging from his arm and thumping against his hip.

* * *

When I hear the front door close behind him, I allow myself to take in the recent "stress" I've placed on my injuries.

There's no way for me to examine my face, but I can reckon that it's ghastly. My lower torso, at least, looks like that of a sickly child, with grayish skin hanging limp against my crippled, stitched-up frame. I know I'd lost a considerable measurement of blood, and reopened several of my wounds, but never to this severity. I want to be angry with the district healer for demanding that I extend my strict bedrest, but I can't. I want to be stubborn, unruly even, but it's impossible to deny that I look awful.

I sigh in frustration, which merits only a wince from my tender abdomen. Odds are I'll be cooped up here until long after the snow melts. It's unimaginably disappointing, since Peeta and I had plans to visit the frozen meadow together when I could walk on my leg, and my stitches had healed.

So much for that.

Guilt radiates through me. Maybe I did ease him from an episode, but Haymitch wasn't incorrect when he said that my little "stunt" inflicted more harm than good. Knowing Peeta, he blames himself for all of this, and will remain angry with me for attempting to help him. And he's even more inconvenienced by me than he was before, because I'm helpless to accomplish anything on my own from the shackles of our bed. he's practically connected to me with a chain already, and now the tether has been tightened even further.

I'm not tired, but my brain feels so bloated with vexation that I can't release, and I drift off with ease. But I don't dream. I merely float in an empty, worthless sense of exhaustion until I'm driven back into reality.

* * *

A pair of vivid blue eyes greet my own.

"Hey."

"Hi."

He's kneeling against our bedside, arms resting on the mattress, watching over me. Peeta's eyelids are rimmed with gray circles, despite having slept for so long.

I start, entirely prepared for the lecture that's surely following. "Peeta-"

He stops my lips with a kiss not unlike the gentle flutter of butterfly wings.

When he pulls away, he speaks in a low whisper.

"End of discussion."

**Surprise is too weak a description.**

Somehow, I manage to formulate a sentence. "But, don't you think...we should...talk, about it?"

His shoulders rise subtly, which I think merits a shrug."The way I figure it, we both know what the other a going to say. I'm not angry with you, and you're not angry with me. If we're both alive, and here, and _safe_ , isn't that all that should matter?"

My expression must seem utterly baffled, because the corners of his mouth perk up.

"Thank you, Katniss."

"You're not... _mad_?"

"Except when you scared me half to death lying in a pool of blood on the bedroom floor?" He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. "No Katniss, I'm not mad. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. We need to stop fighting each other after one of us tries to help the other. Because it's just what you and I do,-"

"Protect each other," I finish him.

"Yeah, we protect each other. So I don't think there's anything to talk about, really."

He breaks the space between us again, by giving me a peck on the forehead.

"Hell, maybe it's crazy that I'm not furious with you. After all, you almost died trying to help me. But I suppose the silver lining now, is that you'll have no choice but to let me care for you."

"In your dreams, Mellark."

"Excuse me, but that's _Dr._ Mellark to you," he says with a flirtatious smirk, while adjusting a pretend lab coat. "I'm afraid your _husband_ is away, Ms. Mellark. And _I'm_ here to aid you while he's gone."

I roll my eyes.

"I can bake you those ever-adored cheese buns, _Ms_. Mellark, if you so desire."

This time, I'm the one to kiss him.

**"** **Yes please,** **_Doctor_ ** **."**

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> *chuckles in an evil voice* tehehe, I'll leave them on a teeny tiny little cliff hanger.   
> Well, that's it so far! I know that's not much for now, but I PROMISE there's more to come. I'll even take requests in regards to what should happen next in comments or reviews. And, just FYI, most of the chapters will be longer than this.   
> Thanks for reading!  
> Now go and REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW.
> 
> best wishes,  
> apromptdisregarded.


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